


Vienna

by quingigillion (cartouche)



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Cliffhangers, For my psychic bean, Freedom, Gen, Kinda shh, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), escape fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/quingigillion
Summary: The grass whips past him, stinging his calves, and his gown catches at thorns, ripping. Cold air tears at his lungs with every shaky inhale, crisp and bitter. His feet are burning, bloody, but he still follows the others, charging steadily across the field towards the trees. It hurts, as they trample further and faster, hurtling like meteors away from blank concrete walls and blank faces and blank memories, but he’ll run as far and as fast as he has to. Maybe he’ll never stop running. He won’t let them take him back.Not any more, not ever again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i really hate this and blame ultravox. literally just posting this so i never have to look at it ever again.

Dirk didn't think when he ran. It was nothing more than instinct, a shove by the universe, a gut feeling. Fluorescent lights whip past him, endless rows of identical doors, no windows, green walls and lino floors. Behind him there are shouts, harsh and panicked, and it pushes him, faster, onwards,  _ escape _ . His bare feet crush over broken glass, a sharp stinging pain, and red smears over the scuffed beige plastic. His lungs heave.

Alarms wail, loud and throbbing, piercing the air. His heart thuds, solid, and he’s so  _ close _ . The other boys disappear around the next corner, whooping. They’ve found a trolley and chair legs and they leave a destructive wake of smashed light fittings and gouged walls. Doors flap open behind them. Dirk follows blindly, skidding around corners, ignoring the ache that builds steadily in his muscles. Each step vibrates through him, one, two, one, two. They’d opened his door, they’d opened everyone’s, with manic eyes and an awful cackling laughter. An orderly lay with his neck broken, propped up against the wall, and Dirk’s stomach had heaved. But they were running, and so Dirk ran. 

He bursts through another door, and it’s  _ cold  _ and  _ dark _ . It’s  _ outside _ . For a moment, a terrifying moment, he can’t see, the world a dense, flat wall of expansive night, and then his eyes adjust and shapes slowly loom grey in the distance. Frigid light spills out of the building, futile against the dark. The alarm behind him squeals ceaselessly into the night sky, muffled by the clang of metal doors and the gathering thud of boots. Black, steel capped boots, relentless in their pursuit. He’s running again, stumbling and trembling, naively pushing forwards. He twists his head behind him, wind burning cold on his face, and watches the facility fade into the inky black, until nothing is left but a speckle of lights and barking dogs. 

The grass whips past him, stinging his calves, and his gown catches at thorns, ripping. Cold air tears at his lungs with every shaky inhale, crisp and bitter. His feet are burning, bloody, but he still follows the others, charging steadily across the field towards the trees. It  _ hurts _ , as they trample further and faster, hurtling like meteors away from blank concrete walls and blank faces and blank memories, but he’ll run as far and as fast as he has to. Maybe he’ll never stop running. He won’t let them take him back. Not any more, not ever again. 

Freedom tastes like smoky autumn night and damp leaves. 

Tree branches catch at him like grasping hands, reaching out from the dark, slowing him down in a thick tangling fear. He won’t go back. As abruptly as the started, the trees stop, disappearing behind him as he trips his way forwards. Ahead of him the other boys appear, stark white fabric and grimy feet, halted by the slick black tarmac of a road. Dirk hangs back, wary of them and their hunger, all too sharp and visible at times, blue and excruciating. His lungs pant frantically, gasping, as shivers crawl like fingers up his spine, rattling through him, thick judders that could be the cold or the adrenaline or the fear. He wishes he could huddle with the boys ahead, but he doesn’t belong. An outcast, a pariah, unable to translate their looks and nods and destructive hands.  _ They’re  _ getting closer, every second they pause, probabilities slimming and freedom fading away, a good dream slipping away with the morning sun. They pick the sharp right, the perilous bend disappearing into the unknown, and Dirk is running again, fatigue sinking heavily in the tips of his fingers. 

It has to lead  _ somewhere _ . 

Dogs bark in the undergrowth, not distant enough, and if he strains his eyes Dirk can see other specks of ghostly white billowing in flashes between the dark tree trunks, cackling, whooping,  _ free _ . 

He’ll go to England, he thinks, if they don't catch him. Somewhere with tea and wide open green spaces, and no bitter tang of something lost, no thoughts of tanks and needles and straps and prodding, prodding,  _ what’s on the card, Svlad? _ He can feel his heart racing and his feet stumble and everything is burning up too quickly, he can’t hope to keep up. 

He should’ve stayed. At least there he got fed, protected, didn’t have to face the dangers of the wide world. He should’ve stayed with Riggins. They’re only going to catch him again, drag him back to be punished. It’s foolish to believe in freedom, that he could ever escape. Ahead, the others charge on, crowing joy in sharp shouts that are swallowed by the vast night sky. They’re disappearing, he’s lagging, greyer and greyer and greyer until they’re black and gone, vanished. He’s alone. His feet are bleeding. A few hot tears splash stubbornly over his cheeks, and he slows to a walk. His lungs protest. 

He should’ve stayed, ignored the banging and screaming outside, ignored when the lock on the door clicked open and he staggered out, blinking in the harsh light to find unconscious bodies with blank faces and the corridor blissfully empty. 

There’s a light behind him, a dull yellowish set of beams that pierce the night with a pale tenacity, gaining ground against the dark, closer and closer and closer. A trundling motor, growling, and  _ this is it _ , the universe pushing him on. 

He steps out. 

Tires screech and he can hear the breaks wheeze, shrill grinding metal. The bonnet huffs out heat, he can feel it on his arms, battling the cold night. The cab door swings open, and a woman appears, face twisted with worry. Her hair drifts aimlessly over her face, caught in the breeze, and it’s  _mesmerising_. 

‘Are you alright sonny? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?’ His mouth opens, and his throat does a feeble imitation of talking, croaking out something obscure and unrecognisable. He sways slightly before his legs decide this moment to give out, and he collapses towards the road in a sickening, blinding swirl of light and dark. Kind, calloused hands catch his head, and the face he stares up into isn’t blank, it’s got wide, worried eyes and quivering lips. 

‘Ben?  _ Ben?! _ This poor kids collapsed, help me get him in the back of the truck.’ More hands join, grumbling but gentle, and they scoop him up, tuck him next to a spare tire and a crate of too ripe bananas and it’s all Dirk can do not to cry with happiness. He thanks the universe in silent, reverent prayer as the soft pads of a holey coat are thrown over him and the engine starts with a splutter. Outside dogs race past, followed by bright flashlights and the crunch of boots, but Dirk’s safe,  _ free _ , nestled on the vibrating floor. He feels them trundle to a halt, hears the squeak of the window as it’s rolled down, an all too familiar voice say  _ Excuse me, ma’am have you seen any young people along the road, they’re sick and need to be looked after, we need them back right away, I’d be much obliged for your assistance.  _

_ No we haven’t, sorry sir _ , comes the response, a heavy, reassuring lie that settles over Dirk like a comforting blanket, and he knows it’s going to be ok. He can see the sky lighten slowly, dawning sun creep over the horizon, and an orange glow lights the back of the pickup.

England, he thinks, he’ll go to England. 


End file.
